


I want you to stay

by FrenchMartiniPlease



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient magic, Angst, Bonding, Dreamscapes, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, dream walkers, predestination or choice?, who is in control here?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-11-27 14:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20949656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchMartiniPlease/pseuds/FrenchMartiniPlease
Summary: The future can be a difficult place for child soldiers and not everyone can cope.  Hermione is caught in the emotional fallout.Magic is more sentient than the wizarding population gives it credit for.  Who is pulling the strings here and will a certain blonde give in and help Hermione out?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to the immensely talented JK Rowling. This work is purely for my own entertainment and learning so forgive me if it is not very good!

The cruelty of survival is, in itself, a gift. It is not always immediately apparent to the recipient that they have received anything at all in those first few hours when they stumble around trying to gain their footing in a world they no longer recognize. No, in the blur of the aftermath of the battle all Hermione knew was that she, Ron and Harry existed. With the dulling sensation of tinnitus ringing in her ears and dust still drifting in the air she clung to her friends. Bloody and drawing on the last vestiges of their combined strength but still unbowed. The knowledge that she existed when so many did not; the sheer unfairness of it all juxtaposed with the joy of being able to draw breath would come later. 

That knowledge would bear down on her with its punishing weight of guilt, bruising her with sadness and a sense that because she had survived so much that she simply must achieve. What she had to achieve was unclear, but she had that driving sense of purpose that needed to be channelled. That is the gift of survival: a crystalline awareness that you must honour the dead by making your time more vibrant, more magical here on Earth. 

Hermione, never one to back away from a challenge allowed the gift to settle into her soul as much a part of her as blood, bone and magic. Honour the fallen and cherish the thread of life that ties you to this world. Others were less graceful as they grappled with this gift, unsure of how to hold it in the new future in front of them. To help him accommodate it, Ron chose to soften the edges so that they would no longer gouge at his flesh; hitting the same sensitive spot over and over again. His implement of choice, Fire whiskey, gave him that. It sanded away the rough edges, leaving them smooth. But the gift demanded recognition and each morning the edges seemed to snag again until Ron would start in on the drink a little earlier each evening. Nothing much, a quick drink whilst making dinner perhaps, or maybe a nip just before leaving work. Before long most days there was a little swig slyly in his office before heading into meetings. Just something to help him. Something to shore up his failing sense of self. 

It all seemed so over-whelming; this new future where they had survived, and now people looked to them for answers. Them. They’d been a bunch of kids running scared and desperate. Every step on that long journey dogged by fear. The only difference between then and now was that he had the extra weight of the gift to carry with him. A weight he could never put down. No, for Ron the burn soothed and as it soothed it helped him to drift further and further away from those that he had once held dear. The fuzziness the alcohol imbued helped him to pretend that he didn’t see the sight of their sadness and determined striving to be, to move on, to live, to take him with them. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stop. He felt Hermione trying to pull him along with her, but he found he no longer wanted to grasp the smooth skin of her hand. He wanted to disentangle himself and let her get on with it. Let her once again prove herself to be capable. The ever dependable and resourceful witch who didn’t need him. He knew he brought nothing of worth into her life. Better for all if he just drifted away on a slipstream of booze. 

Harry struggled least. He, who had lain all his hopes of his future aside to try and deliver a future to others; had not hesitated when the gift was hastily thrust back into his own hands. Harry had taken flight with Ginny and they had spent several years travelling around South America. Alive and free. Hermione knew what Harry felt. That every breath was sweeter because he was alive. The pair of them knew. Like each pulse of blood in their veins was a constant marching band cheering them on that they could do more, see more, be more if only others didn’t want so much from them. For Ron it was almost the opposite, each beat, each rush of blood through his body spoke of how he shouldn’t be here; it’s not fair, it’s not fair, Fred, Fred. Guilt trickled through him slowly. Continuously building until it was monstrous in its magnitude and in the end he left.


	2. Cold Comfort

February 1st, 2004 

Hermione stood, one of many in black formal robes. The cloth felt stiff and unfamiliar on her skin. Bought hastily at the end of last week when it dawned on her she would need something to wear to this. That a funeral would be taking place, and this wasn’t some horrible nightmare. 

She would be burning them tonight. 

Taking a breath in through her nose and pulling her shoulders back she stood tall next to Harry and the remaining Weasleys. She wished that thought hadn’t pass into her head, ‘The remaining Weasley’s’. 

Above them a sky clear and blue with a bright sun. Sunshine at a funeral is wrong; there should be rain. The heavens lashing the earth with its own expression of sorrow. The sun mocked Hermione’s pain. The harsh winter sun leant no warmth. She shivered. The earth too was cold, and she didn’t want to think of him down there. ‘Oh, Ron what have you done?’ Every time she had thought of him alone on the run up to today, she had crumpled under the weight of her grief. Tears for Ron and selfishly tears for herself.

Her eyes burned but from the lack of tears rather than from holding them back. She was aware that there would be those in the crowd that were there not to mourn but to profit. Those that would want to splash the family’s pain on the front pages of The Prophet. She snorted at the thought. There wouldn’t be any pictures of her crying today. Maybe. 

Ever since she had woken this morning and gone through the ritual of preparing for this, it had felt like a thick mantle had been spread over her emotions, keeping them down. Keeping them buried. She doubted that anyone would be getting more than a photo of her looking stoic. There would probably be accusations about her unfeeling nature in the paper tomorrow, but she had nothing to lose or gain in courting the public’s opinion.

Indeed, she knew several individuals had attended the funeral today in the hopes of gaining something. What, she wasn’t sure. She had always been too straight forward for politicking but there were more Slytherins at this funeral than Ron’s affiliations with them would have warranted. Theo Nott, tall and elegantly dressed in the finest mourning robes had bowed his head and politely murmured his apologies before moving to the back of the crowd as had Blaise Zabini. No touches of sympathy. No comforting weight of a human hand on Hermione’s shoulder from the Slytherins. Just cold assurances of sympathy for her situation. 

Nott’s appearance at the funeral seemed incongruous given she couldn’t recall a single occasion when Ron and Theo had passed more than a few quips at each other in school. She doubted that he knew much more about Ron than the information contained in Malfoy’s ‘Weasley is our King’ ditty and that Ron had helped defeat his father’s so-called Lord. At least she could sort of understand Blaise’s presence. As Public Relations for Ogden’s distillery, he had had no qualms at keeping Ron supplied with booze. It never harmed any of his campaigns to have a War Hero spotted drinking their alcohol despite how much it might have harmed Ron not to mention their relationship but then that had never been Blaise’s concern had it? 

Hermione recognised that she should feel the familiar surge of hatred that often pulled at her whenever she saw the handsome Slytherin, but nothing came to her. No need to repress the desire to grab her wand and hex him. There was nothing but this dull cataloguing of events and an awareness that she should be feeling something. 

At the graveside a constant line of people moved past her, touching her, hugging her, telling her their sorrow for her loss but nothing seemed real. Like a marionette Hermione’s hand lifted and shook the hands of hundreds all keen to say that they had been there the day Ron Weasley, the War Hero, had been buried. She should have been incensed at such a display of insincerity. She should have refused to shake one more hand. Should have. 

There was no energy that she could muster. So up and down her hand moved seemingly of its own accord. She bumped shoulders with Harry often as they stood in the receiving line with the Weasleys. They were pressed tightly together given the size of the family and it seemed only right that the receiving line started with Hermione and then came all those who loved Ron dearest before ending with Molly. 

Hermione glanced along the line seeing the care worn faces of her friends; her adoptive family. At the tears that ran freely down Molly’s face she had to turn her head. The raw grief Molly had for the loss of her son was there for all to see and Hermione wished for just an ounce of that courage. To be able to stand here and show the world exactly what Ron Weasley had meant to her. Instead her grief was lock up tight somewhere in the pit of her soul. A pit she was terrified to even peek in, in case it emerged and swallowed her whole. 

More faceless people swarmed them until only one or two mourners came forward at a time. Those that had waited to the end. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was because they thought themselves more important or less, but did it really matter anyway? Her back ached and her limbs felt heavy from standing here so long. She wanted this to end. For the day to be over with so that she could turn her face away from all those that wanted to catch a glimpse of her falling apart.

She recognised amongst the stragglers, the Malfoys, fresh from their five-year house arrest. She briefly recalled seeing that their incarceration had ended last December in the paper although neither had seemed too keen to venture out into Wizarding Society since. Not that Hermione had been very social either. Those formal events had become a nightmare when it became increasingly obvious that Ron had been drinking to excess. 

Aware that their presence was unwanted, Narcissa and Draco had stayed to the back and merely bowed their heads to the Weasley family, Hermione and Harry, as they had made their way from the graveside. Hermione watched the two blond heads dip in a semblance of respect that they had never shown Ron in life. 

Hermione found her feet moving in their direction, small faltering steps as if she might fall at any second. There was no reason for her to shift in their direction. No words she wanted to speak but coiled in the depths of her stomach an emotion was snaking itself through her. Pushing her forward. 

Neither Malfoy seemed particularly keen to engage with her. But she wanted their recognition, wanted them of all people to see her pain. Hermione found herself stalling in front of them. Daring them to make eye contact with her. Narcissa raised her blond head and her blue eyes appraised her. Hermione felt pinned under the weight of her gaze. Narcissa’s eye’s the exact shade of the damnable sky above. Cold and clear. 

“Miss Granger, please accept our heartfelt sorrow at your loss.” The delivery of the words crisp. Malfoy seemed determined to fixate on a spot just beyond her right shoulder. 

“Granger.” One word. That was all he had for her. Nothing more than a brief acknowledgement that she was there. The emotion in her stomach flared. A hand slid across the small of her back, Harry. She hadn’t been aware of him moving over to join her but that hand at the base of her spine resonated warmth and strength through her. With the support of her best friend she raised herself to her full height and tilted her chin up. She would not appear weak in front of those who thought less of her.

“Narcissa” Harry’s voice was low as the witch glanced his way and a slight smile at his recognition of her, graced her mouth. 

“Malfoy” Both men regarded each other as neutrally as possible given the circumstances. Harry bleak in his sorrow and Malfoy detached as if watching their suffering from a great distance. An observer on a private moment of pain for others who cared. 

A blessed return of feeling flooded through Hermione. It wasn’t a happy feeling. Rage against the injustice that Ron couldn’t have stayed, couldn’t have put his whole effort into fixing himself. If not for him, for her, for the future that could have been theirs. 

The sheer wrongness of the situation that she was burying one of her best friends whilst standing in front of her was a pureblood prat that should have died for his crimes in the war seemed to sluice over the fire of her anger like petrol. It ignited her fury to even greater ferocity. She could feel her magic building inside her. Looking for a release. Some form of outlet like it always found in moments of piqued temper as a child. 

Her magic roared. The normally insubstantial and ephemeral tingle of magic that ran over the surface of her skin seemed to become acoustic to Hermione. It screamed. It demanded attention. Hermione’s magic felt brittle, sharp and set to attack. 

As if hearing the war cry of a fellow combatant, another’s magic rose up but there was no retaliation. 

The magic soothed her own. Their magic did not intertwine, there was no tamping down by smothering her magic in a stronger aura. It simply recognized, ‘Yes, I know you. I know you of old’. It was unlike anything Hermione had ever experienced in almost twelve years in the magical community. 

The closest she had felt to this sensation was during sex. Sex magic, old and slightly naughty. Spoken about in sniggering hushed tones in Gryffindor dorms.   
‘You will know it when it happens.’ Lavender stated with Parvati nodding her agreement in the background hadn’t really given Hermione any guidance as to what it was, rather just that it existed. Given that both girls were firm believers in Divination, Hermione chalked it up to a smutty myth that someone had probably started after an excellent orgasm. And she had had plenty of those on her own but no ‘sex magic’ had manifested itself during those times, alone in her bed.

In the end Hermione had gone to Ginny for an explanation of what the warm ripple that would float through her magic during her first few times with Ron was. Ginny who, whilst they had sat in her bedroom in The Burrow had teased Hermione.  
‘For once I know something you don’t.’ Hermione had shrugged and tried not to blush too much.

‘It’s not like there’s anyone I can ask – don’t say I could ask your Mum’ she rolled her eyes when Ginny opened her mouth ‘She’s Ron’s Mum too and I don’t think she’d ever want to think of her son in that way.’ Ginny had arched her brow before both girls had burst into giggles. 

‘It’s like an extra layer to orgasm. A little additional magical gift.’ She shrugged and pulled some of her red hair through her fingers, ‘Mum says it doesn’t happen all the time.’ Ginny hesitated ‘It’s probably means you really love your partner and magic wants you to bond.’ Hermione blushed but she loved the idea that her magic wanted Ron as much as she did. Ginny watched the flush rising on her friend’s face and snorted ‘So does this mean my brother is pretty good in bed?’ Laughing Hermione had shoved her off the bed at that and refused to answer any more questions.

Ron was, had been, good in bed. At first. The more booze he drank, the less he wanted to curl up with Hermione. On the few occasions that he did, it didn’t always go to plan and certainly her magic didn’t seem to indicate that it was anymore happy with the situation than she was. 

But this sensation was more. It wasn’t like her magic brushing against Ron’s. It was intense, distinct and separate from her. It was as if both her magic and that of the other unknown person’s was sentient. That they knew and longed for each other.

Staggered Hermione glanced at the faces of those around her. Searching for some clue as to whom the magic belonged. Never, had anything come close to this sensation. Narcissa Malfoy’s, head cocked to the side watched the dance of emotions on Hermione’s face. Malfoy stood rigid and perhaps for the first time in Hermione’s memory of him, looked awkward as if he didn’t know how to extract himself from the situation he had found himself in. And Harry? Harry was running his free hand through his hair and looking like he just wanted to be anywhere other than here. In that respect both he and Malfoy looked the same for once.

No one looked as if they had taken steps to comfort a deeply personal and integral part of Hermione. But if not them, who? Glancing round there were still stragglers. A knot of Gryffindors, some from their year and some folk from Ron’s place of work. None even looked to be aware of them beyond the fact that they were the receiving line at a funeral. Hermione knew from the pale imitation of this sensation, the ‘sex magic’ she had experienced before, that it had only happened when she was intensely connected to another in an emotional and physical way. 

The only person touching her was Harry and he had brushed against her shoulder often over the last hour or so with no such effect. No one in the vicinity looked as if they were exerting any influence on her magic. 

The new magic played lightly across the surface of hers. Her knees buckled as she realised that both magics were beatific. It was if they had at last found a precious friend again. She tried for words, but nothing came.

Turning back to the Malfoys she was aware that Narcissa wore a slight frown and was reaching out a gloved hand as if to steady Hermione, but Malfoy scowled at his Mother, staying her hand. She knew she was a state. But at that moment the peace and joy she felt, separate and distinct from her but still somehow part of her; was beautiful. Her breath caught in her chest and she revelled in this sensation.

Until it started to leave. 

She could feel it retreating although she could almost taste its reluctance to go and it was the thing that broke her. Sucking in a ragged breath, the tears flowed. Her emotions having roared into life overwhelmed her.

Harry slide his hand round to her arm until he gripped her just above her elbow and moved her away from the Malfoys. She was aware that the aristocratic pair would be making their way to the apparition point. There would be no sight of them at the wake. Indeed, apart from the respectful nod to the Weasley’s they hadn’t tried to really initiate any contact with any of them. It had been Hermione that had forced the interaction. 

Harry guided her back to the receiving line and leaned into whisper to Ginny. She nodded and rounded to take Hermione’s other arm.

“Come on. Let’s get inside.” Ginny’s small hand strong on her as both her friends led her back to the building where the toasting and speeches would take place. Hermione was quaking. Shock. This is shock. 

The tears dripped steadily from her face soaking into her robes. She leaned her head onto Harry’s shoulder and she felt the kiss he placed on the top of her head. The affection causing her sobs to become even more violent.

Hermione didn’t watch where they guided her to. It felt like one minute she was outside and the next she was in a pale green room with low couches and a side tables with boxes of tissues. Ginny helped her onto the nearest cream and gold couch and slipped in beside her.

“Hermione, I have to go back, Mum…” Ginny started as she rubbed soothing circles on Hermione’s back.

“S’fine Gin. I’m fine” she took one of the tissues from the box on the low table and blew her nose “You get back. I’m being selfish.” She gave Ginny a watery smile “Thanks” she gripped Ginny’s hand and squeezed. Ginny placed her other hand on top, returning the pressure.

The door cracked open and both women watched as Harry brought in Hagrid. Pointing his wand at the other couch he muttered a spell that Hermione didn’t doubt was to reinforce the seat to take the half giant’s weight.

“’Mione, Hagrid’s going to sit with you a bit. I need to - Gin and I need to-”  
Harry shuffled his feet looking guilty. She nodded, letting them go. Hagrid lumbered past Ginny as she rose to leave and patted Hermione on the shoulder before settling on the opposite couch. His face blotchy and eyes red. Neither spoke. The genuine grief on Hagrid’s face was testament enough to how he had felt for Ron. Only the sound of hitched breathing filled the room until Hagrid took out a large navy hanky and blew his nose in a comically loud fashion. Hermione felt a giggle bubble past her lips. Hagrid looked up and guffawed.  
‘Sorry ain’t never been able to do that without making a racket’ He smiled shyly. “How ye doin’?”  
“I don’t know.” And the truth shocked her. She didn’t know. She’d never been in a situation like this. She had experienced loss before, Merlin knew she was familiar with it. But sending her parents away had been desperate but necessary. There was a purpose to it but this? This was senseless.

“Ye don’t need to ‘ave all the answers.” Hagrid stood and walked to the window “No one does. An’ you were good to him. Good for him. ‘Mione, don’t you dare think this has anything to do with you.”

“But doesn’t it? Maybe I could have done something different. Maybe I could have gotten him help. A counsellor. Someone he could have talked to if he couldn’t talk to me.” words were rushing out of her. All the things she should have done but she hadn’t thought it was that bad yet. All the ways she had failed him rushed through her. She stared up into Hagrid’s kind face. “We both know I could have done more and now I’m going to have to live with this. Knowing that I let him down when he needed me.” She cast her eyes down.

Hagrid shook his shaggy head. “It don’t always work tha’ way. Magical folks is different, see? Your magic is part of why you’ll live a good sixty years longer than muggles.” Hermione’s face crumpled at the thought of that length of time without Ron and Hagrid gestured for her to join him at the window. He pulled her into a hug as they looked out across the green of the cemetery 

“See wizard folk are more a part of the earth elements and spirit than they like to believe. Magic’s old Hermione, so old tha’ we’ve lost touch with a lot of it and there are parts of it we can control without even knowing we are doing it. Ron wanted to leave so his magic took him back.” Hermione pushed out of his embrace and rounded on him.

“Are you telling me Ron did this? That his magic killed him because he gave up?” She was panting, trying to stop herself from being sick. Hagrid held up his large hands.

“Now don’t be like tha’. His magic just tried to give him what he wanted. You know he was in pain. Never been righ’ since Fred. Well his magic tried to help him and it went back to bhrigh.”

“Bree? Who is Bree?” she demanded crossly.

“Bhrigh, old celts word, means breath or essence. It’s not chance that ‘ogwarts is in Scotland. Let’s old Cailleach keep her eye on the young uns.” He looked out of the window as if what he had said was nothing new to Hermione. She’d never heard of this person. It sounded like he had said Kayleigh with a weird friction on the end of the name like the Scottish word loch.

“Who is this Kayleigh” she knew she was messing up the pronunciation “and why would she be watching Hogwarts?” 

“Cailleach, Goddess of winter. She becomes Bhrighde the summer Goddess. But I always think of them as reflections of the same person. Ye’ll know all about Beltane and Samhainne?” 

“Yes, but that’s about the Winter King, the green man and the May Queen and…” she frowned “It’s a celebration of nature but not magic per say.”

“Ain’t it? Ain’t nature magic? And don’ we all return to the earth? If it was up to me I’d want old Cailleach gathering my Bhrigh back to her again. Well Cailleach’s older, some say she made the mountains and hills of Scotland and it’s her fight with the Winter King that lets all new life begin again.” Hagrid rubbed his hand over his eyes.

“But what’s this got to do with Ron?” she could hear the whine in her voice.

“Hermione, have you heard of old married folks dying of a broken heart after one of them goes? Well their bhrigh knows what their hearts want and it returns them to Cailleach to be with their other half.” He looked at her as if waiting for her to challenge him but she couldn’t. She’d heard her Mum talk of elderly married patients at the dental surgery who seemed to pass away within months of each other. Secretly she had always thought this was a kindness. To not have to live without the one you loved. She sharped in a breath.

“You know they say in Scotlan’ if it’s a clear sunny day on the 1st of February then Cailleach is out gathering firewood so that winter can last that bit longer. Maybe she’s abroad today.” Hagrid continued with the tone of one trying to change the subject. He rocked on his heels and contemplated the bright day before him.

Hermione snorted at the thought that some goddess was gathering up firewood let alone people’s essence. It didn’t fit with her view of the world at all. 

Except. That moment. 

Was Cailleach abroad today? Yes, the moment had been brief, but it had brought Hermione more peace than anything she had yet to experience in all the hours that had hung suspended between her life before and the one she had now.


	3. Forgotten Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of the flashbacks. I hope you enjoy.

Friday the 2nd of May 1997

Flashes of colour. Oranges with a rich golden hue. Crimson reds, bloody and shiny like holly buds in their brilliance. Pale pinks, so soft they were almost white. Buttery yellows and fuschia pinks. All intermingled with shades of green. Bold emerald green, darker glossy verdant greens like the leaves of the hedges that surround her family home. Silver green like furry lamb’s ear leaves. The mossy green of long forgotten pathways. Even the light was bathed in colour as if it was filtering down onto her through foliage. The colours were everywhere. Where was she? It was as if she was in and of the colours. A blur of celebration of vibrant life.

There was no sense that she was alone here. The air itself seemed to teem with life and although she saw no other person or animal; she wasn’t lonely. This place thrilled to have her as much as she thrilled to belong to it.

Time could have passed. Or it might have been only moments of breathing in and out the bouquet of wildflowers. The perfume light and fragrant before giving way to something darker, earthier and mossy. Even the quality of the light changes. As if grey clouds had rolled in over the canopy of leaves leaving only a dull olive-green light. Everything seemed to shift in expectation.

The rich dark scent held a memory for her. A memory of pleasure and longing all tangled up and twisted together. 

She knew he would be coming for her. 

No sound heard, nor movement sensed but the air seemed to grow dense. More difficult to drag into her chest. Perhaps it was the speed with which her heart raced that stopped her from taking in vital oxygen. Heart fluttering. Her eyes darting through the darkening forest seeing no one. 

Still, she knew he was there. 

Familiar dark earth tones over laid with the smell of ozone that dry earth releases after a quick drenching in rain. Rich. Fecund. Life.

She tensed; waiting. He had come to her so many times before and he would again. 

A dance they knew in their souls without even hearing a beat of music. The grounds and the plants around them swayed to their own music. A quiet susurration through the forest creating sweeping music for them to sway to.

Touch. A fingertip lazily drawn down her spine. Skin tightening and muscles twitching in its path. 

She recognized for the first time she was naked. 

He flattened his hand against her hip briefly as if tracing the curve under his palm before allowing it to traverse back up the expanse of her back sending shivers of sensation through her. 

Both hands moved along the column of her neck, fingers sinking through the hair at her nape. Pushing lightly, bending her head in a mock bow. She felt the smirk grace her lips. She bowed to no man. 

There was no pain as she pulled her head up right. His hands and her movement leaving her feeling like a cat stretching. His fingers raked down her neck, moving across her flesh as if he couldn’t touch enough of her skin. They drifted across her shoulders and down. One hand reaching round to palm her breast and the other winding its way across her stomach, his fingers splaying possessively on her hip.

Her breast he squeezed gently, and her nipple felt sensitive brushing against the warm skin of his palm. He pulled her back until her back was flush with his front.  
There. Right where she wanted him. She was encased in him. But she wasn’t trapped. She was the Redwood that his ivy tendrils twisted round, seeking support from her strength.

His large hands, strong arms and hard muscles of his chest and torso spoke of his masculinity almost as much as the heat from his erection, hard and firm as it pressed into the base of her spine. His hand ghosted across her stomach, leaving a burning trail of heat in its wake. He brought both hands to rest on her breasts and she arched into his hands.  
A low moan escaping from her lips. He bent his head and licked along the top of her shoulder to the curve of her neck. 

Desire flared. 

He blew cold air along the path he had just traced with his tongue, igniting the fever in her. She twisted to turn herself in his arms. To see him. To look upon his face in this fresh incarnation after all this time. To gaze at him as he lay her down. 

She longed to press her nipples into his chest. To feel the weight of him on her. To feel him pushing into her, making her his, as much as he was hers. But he held her firm and continued to torture the tender flesh on her neck not allowing her the opportunity to see him. She gasped as much at his audacity as at his mastery of her body.

“Oi. I don’t wanna listen to your sex dream.” the giggling voice was accompanied by a sharp shove to her hip.

Gasping in cool air, Hermione blinked up at the mass of hair that hung over her. Lavender patted her hip more gently this time.

“That’s it. Bathrooms free if you want to finish off that particular scene in private.” She waggled her eyebrows before straightening, tucking her hair behind her ear and making her way to her wardrobe. Rummaging about in her clothes her muffled voice stated “Only, don’t take too long as I want to catch Parvati at breakfast.” 

Hermione blinked a few times more. Dazed. Her heartbeat slowing as the dream receded into the corner of her mind. Blushing she realised what Lavender had heard.

“No- I’m good. You- you go ahead” she stammered out. Her head swam. When did their room smell like walking through the forbidden forest? She could almost taste it.

Lavender re-appeared with a handful of school clothes. “Sure? Don’t say I wasn’t generous enough to let you finish.” She made a rubbing gesture with the fingers, smirked and made her way to the wooden door that led to the bathrooms. 

Hermione blushed furiously at the thought of anyone knowing what she would have been doing in the bathroom if she had taken up Lavender’s offer. Not that she didn’t do that. She did. They all did but Hermione made sure she’d put up the necessary privacy wards every time and even then, she only did it when she was sure there wasn’t a soul awake to hear her. 

The sound of a shower turning on was the only sound in the dormitory. Despite her embarrassment, the dream had left a lingering effect on her and she knew without touching herself that she would be wet between her thighs. 

Glancing round the dorm she saw four empty beds. Some were made, suggesting their owners where gone for the day and some a pile of rumpled sheets. She wouldn’t normally but - _that dream._

_ _Her hand slid down and fingered the edge of her night dress. She squirmed. It wasn’t like she never took advantage of rare moments of solitude in the dorm. She would have preferred it if Lavender wasn’t behind a wooden door and knew precisely what Hermione had been dreaming about even if both girls didn’t know who had made the dream so good._ _

_ _Her fingers danced over the skin of her thighs leaving a trail of goosebumps across her flesh. The dream had her all worked up. She dipped her fingers into her wet folds, tracing her slit and lightly circling her clit. The sensation felt muted._ _

_ _She tried again. Again, the feeling was there, but less than she wanted. _ _

_ _Less than she needed. And she needed to come. Desperately. _ _

_ _She was hopped up on the skitterish high that her dream lover had raised in her. Her fingers worked in her usual dance over her clit but the satisfaction she sought was receding from her grasp as quickly as the dream fading from her mind. She let out a little shriek of frustration and pounded her fists on the mattress as Lavender shouted through the door._ _

_ _“You ok out there?”_ _

_ _No, I’m not thought Hermione, but she tersely replied “Fine” as she threw her legs over the edge of her bed and determined to forget the dream and get on with her day._ _

_ _ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^_ _

_ _“I’m not saying he’s up to something. Just- there’s something, you know?” _ _

_ _Harry continued watched the gaunt Slytherin as he moved through the Great Hall. Younger pupils seemed to melt away in front of him leaving his path clear, but he didn’t notice. The pale boy had barely lifted his head. Hermione, being used to this almost daily litany on the woes of Draco Malfoy and his supposed wrongdoing from Harry merely gave a non-committal grunt as a sort of agreement. She’d really tried to get Harry to drop it, but he was far more stubborn than she had given him credit for and continued to ruminate on Malfoy. Every. Bloody. Day._ _

_ _“You not eating that?” Ron leaned over her shoulder and snatched the last bit of crispy bacon off her plate._ _

_ _“I was actually.”_ _

_ _But he didn’t hear her as he grinned, catching the eye of Lavender sitting with Parvati. Lavender waved to him and he made his way further down the bench to go sit with ‘Lav-Lav’._ _

_ _“Thanks Ron. I’ll just starve then, will I?” she muttered under her breath. Harry glanced back to her._ _

_ _“Call one of the House Elves for more.”_ _

_ _“No.” she let out a long exhale from her nose and started shifting her cutlery about on her plate. “I’m done.” She rose from the bench and cast a glance back at Ron, biting off bits of her bacon as he grinned at Lavender and she simpered back. “I’m going to head up to the Dorms for a bit. You wanting to head into Hogsmeade tomorrow or are you practising?” she pulled her school jumper over her hands making sweater paws as she waited on Harry who looked faintly sick as he watched Ron flirting._ _

_ _“Might just get a few hours flying in first thing. Meet you here at lunch and then head down?” he tapped the table with the end of his fork and looked up “I’m good heading in with just you or if you want to invite some other friends along?” he trailed off._ _

_ _“Ginny’s planning to go with Dean”_ _

_ _“Oh right- maybe Luna? I mean anyone really- I don’t think Ron’s going to want-” Harry’s face was flushing red and he seemed to have become fascinated with the wooden salt and pepper grinders on the table._ _

_ _“I’ll ask about.” She grinned at his flustering “But if I do, you need to remember lunch is 12 Harry, not 2 o’clock like last time.” He nodded “See you in class then.” _ _

_ _She shook out the sleeves of her jumper and made her way out the hall thinking of how she could manage to get Harry his five minutes alone with Ginny tomorrow. Hermione was pretty certain that Ginny didn’t know that Harry had taken to looking out for her every chance he got. She wasn’t even certain Harry himself realised he was doing it. She smiled as she made her way along the corridor. Thinking on how good it would be if Ginny and Harry did get together, she didn’t realise that she had managed to catch up with Draco Malfoy._ _

_ _Malfoy was sitting in a window seat, back against the stone and with his legs straight out in front of him, ankles crossed. His head was tilted back, eyes closed and with his hands in his lap, he could have been praying. Seeking absolution for premeditated sin he had no doubt committed she thought. Slowing, she pulled her wand from her back pocket, wordlessly cast a silencing charm on her trainers, and the slid the wand away again. She was hoping to pass him without any of the usual vitriol he normally spewed at her. True, he had been less obvious in his insults this year but any time Hermione could avoid close contact with him was a good thing in her book._ _

_ _The way the sun slanted over his face casting him in light and shadow caught her eye. It brought out his exhaustion that no amount of glamours could hide._ _

_ _Not for the first time did she wonder what was happening with the boy. Just because she thought Harry was wrong; there was no way Malfoy had been branded. It didn’t mean that there wasn’t something happening with him. No-one with an ego his size just withered away the way he had over this last year._ _

_ _She cocked her head to the side and really studied him. He looked fragile. The bones of his wrists protruded sharply. His shirt looked large and frankly a bit rumpled. Something you never saw on a Slytherin was an out of place crease and here sat Draco Malfoy looking as if he had slept in his clothes._ _

_ _ She moved closer, confident in her silencing charm, drawn in by this rare opportunity to be able to look at the wasted boy. Sighing, she turned to make her way back to Gryffindor tower._ _

_ _A hand grabbed her upper arm, stilling her. She turned sharply, looking into dark grey eyes and she tried to tug her arm free. Her heart took up a rapid tattoo._ _

_ _“Malfoy, let go.”_ _

_ _He only seemed to pull her closer, his eyes more blank than she had ever seen them. Looking at her but not seeing her. Then suddenly he was there. His eyes focused in on her and his nostrils widened a fraction. His head tilted unconsciously towards her._ _

_ _“Tell me Mudblood, have you been rolling in the mud where you belong?” he drawled._ _

_ _“Get _off_ me.” She used her other hand to try and pry his fingers off her but for a boy who looked like he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks he was surprisingly strong.___ _

_ _ _ _“Again, you misunderstand Granger. I give the orders, not filthy scum like you.” Her eyes widened at the quiet way he spoke his hate filled words. He shoved her away from him and she stumbled back, only just righting herself before she could crash into a suit of armour._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Take yourself back to the green houses with the mud and the flowers that you reek of.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ He rose fluidly and deliberately pushed her into the metal suit that she had just avoided, sending her and it crashing to the floor. He strolled away towards the staircase that would take him down to the Slytherin dungeons. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Hermione scrabbled to her feet, looking around for any witnesses to their altercation as the suit reassembled itself. Each squeeze of her heart felt painful even before she began the punishing run back to her tower. She knew she shouldn’t let him get to her. It was only words. Spiteful bigoted words with no magic in them, only power. The power to wound her. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ It wasn’t until she had pounded her way back to her home and locked herself in her dorm did she feel safe enough to recollect the details of their meeting. Both the strangeness and the familiarity of it. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He might have smelled mud and flowers from her, but she had smelt the ozone of rain on him._ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to all who have read and left kudos. It means more than you can ever know.

“Hhh.” Her sudden intake of breath woke her. 

Hermione put her hand out and groped for the drapes that surrounded her dorm bed only for her hand to fall through air. The certainty that she was in Hogwarts gave way. She was in the double bed in her flat, not the narrow single bed of her youth. 

As the green grey light crept onto the horizon outside her window, she knew that any sleep she managed to get these days was tissue thin. Useful only to keep her body functioning but not her mind. It felt like the last fucking insult Ron could throw at her. Thanks to him, her mind had shut down just as effectively as her heart. 

Crookshanks padded across her torso. His weight a comfort and normally her alarm clock. He butted his furry skull against the side of her face, in rebuttal for waking him at whatever ungodly hour it was. 

“Crooks” 

He purred in her ear as he slid his furry cheek against hers. Her duvet took the brunt of his happy paws dance as he kneaded her in delight. 

‘At least one of us is happy to see a new day.’ thought Hermione. She pulled him closer for a hug, even as he tried to wriggle away from such a blatant show of affection. 

Grabbing her wand from her bedside table she cast tempus. 4.37am. Too early to get up but sleep would elude her. Crookshanks curled up in a ball at her waist. She stroked his warm body and felt him relax further into the comforter, a deep purr rattling in his chest. 

Willing herself not to think had no effect. The dream played out in her mind again and she realised it was a memory, not a dream. Well, a memory of a dream, if that made any sense. 

She turned any memories she had of that day over in her mind. Trying to find a reason why she would be thinking about that day at all. She hadn’t thought of Lavender in the longest time. She tried not to. It would have been best not to be rushed with thoughts of Lavender’s final moments, but they played out behind her eyes. 

In frustration she sat up and turned on the light hoping it would chase away the thoughts as it did darkness. But sitting in the pool of light she suffered from her curiosity. The feeling that there was something that she didn’t know, itched at her subconscious. 

Oh, she tried to stop her mind skipping from one unpleasant topic to another but always circling back to that moment. 

The moment at the graveside.

She couldn’t think of it as anything less than a moment. To call it anything else would trivialise it.

Hermione hadn’t breathed a word of the what she had experienced to anyone else. She instinctively knew if she confided in Ginny, she would probably chalk it up to sheer emotional upheaval and tell her that it hadn’t really happened. 

But it had. The impact on her shattered spirits was real and for that fleeting moment she had been soothed, comforted. Now like so many nights when her mind was somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, she thought on it. 

The memory of it kept coming back to her. Like a perpetual loop of static noise inside her brain. When the house was too quiet. When the distant rumble of traffic or the buzz of the fridge were the only sounds other than her hitching breath as she tried to hold in the tears. Tears, that too often would well up and over-flow silently down her cheeks, the trail they left behind turning cold as they ran into her hair line. 

Only then could she admit how desperately she wanted to experience it again.

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It hadn’t taken the papers long to shift their reporting on the tragedy of Ron’s death to speculation on how the Hero had fallen more or less by his own hand and where exactly had his support system been? 

At first there was little discordant notes in the articles, nothing concrete, just hints. Perhaps, had Potter not left him behind; particularly when Ron had stuck by him throughout the war, he would have managed to get his life back on track. Just a thought. An odd comment here and there in the editorials.

As the days passed the articles in The Daily Prophet began shouting their accusations that Hermione Granger had failed her lover. Let him down at a time when he needed her love and support by being too involved in her own life.

Too single minded to see what was happening. 

It all pointed to a basic character flaw, they said. Perhaps as a muggleborn she lacked a certain depth of feeling. An inability to recognise when a person’s psyche and magic had reached breaking point, they said. Perhaps it had nothing to do with her origins, perhaps it was her mind being too cold, too rational, that she could not see her lovers’ pain, they said. 

“Mione, this is bullshit and you know it.” Harry threw the offending paper away from him across the scrubbed wooden table. 

“You saw the crap they were printing about me and then they took a shot at Ginny. It’s the usual in the public eye nonsense. Anyone who knows you and Ron, knows this is bollocks.” He drew his hand through his hair and then reached out for his friend who looked more forlorn than he had ever seen her. 

Hermione pushed off from the kitchen cabinet that she had been leaning against and gladly took his hand, letting him pull her into him in a one-armed hug as he sat at her kitchen table.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way but maybe you should come with Ginny and I.” he held her close and rubbed soothing circles on her back.

“I’m not running away Harry.” She turned and planted a kiss on his head, grateful for Harry being there. For coming home. For standing by her.

“It wouldn’t be running away. Just a chance, you know, to get away from all this…this shit.” He waved a hand in the direction of the paper. “No one would blame you. And I hate thinking of you here.” 

The ‘alone’ he didn’t say seemed to ring loudly in Hermione’s mind, she let him wrap both arms around her waist and hold her close to him. 

“I am not trying to be cruel but what do you have that keeps you here?”

Hermione drew his hands from around her and moved back to lean against the kitchen counter and took a deep breath in through her nose 

“I have…” 

She frowned. What did she have? Parents through necessity she had kept at arm’s length when she entered this world. Who, no matter how often they reassured her that they understood her actions during the war, were left with a deep mistrust of just how powerful and manipulative their own daughter could be.   
They loved her as she them, but trust is a precious commodity; the true value of which she had not realised until she had squandered it. There would be no safe shelter in the loving arms of her family. She, herself, was the very bogeyman that her mother’s hugs and whispered endearments had chased away from under her childhood bed. 

She had friends, but none as close as Harry and Ginny. 

“Harry, I can’t come with you. No matter how long I leave for, this will always be here when I get back. And they will punish me if I leave. You know that.” She squeezed his shoulders “You and Ginny need time. Ron wasn’t just mine. He’s… was Ginny’s brother and your best mate. I couldn’t bear it if all I do is remind of you of what we’ve lost.”

Harry turned away and wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and stared into its contents. Hesitating.

“Mione, do you ever feel angry?” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and continued “I’m angry. So fucking angry with him.” He turned to face her again “How could he do this to you? To Ginny? I hear her crying at night. She thinks I’m sleeping but I hear her, and it just rips me to shreds. I want him back so I can shout at him, tear him a new one. Hit him. Hurt him.” Harry looked shocked as if he didn’t even realise how deeply his hurt ran. 

“I want to make him feel some of the pain that he has left you, Ginny, all of us with.” He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand then looked back at the coffee cup “I want to hurt him so fucking bad.” He said in a defeated voice  
.   
“I know” she sat in the chair heavily next to him and slung her arm around his shoulder “I know. Every day it hurts.” 

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Monday the 1st of March 2004

Hermione stepped into the Atrium that Monday morning, taking her first steps into her new life as a, what? Not a widow, she hadn’t been married; couldn’t lay claim to the respectability that moniker imbued but she wasn’t only a girlfriend. Such a title seemed too weak for the passions that she had weathered and must continue to bear. Today was her first day back at work. Back to normal. People kept telling her it would be good to get back to her usual routine.

Eyes lingered on her as she crossed the tiled floor. Had her footsteps always been this loud when she had last walked with purpose over this very floor? Was it only now when she so desperately wanted to shrink within herself that every step seemed to announce to those around her that she was here?

The back of her neck prickled with an anxious flush. She couldn’t do this. She didn’t want to do this. 

‘Today is the worst it will ever be. Tomorrow will be better.’ It would have been a useful mantra if only she believed it. Today was hideous and there was little doubt in her mind that every day without Ron would be like this. 

Her breathing was shallow and quick, and she could feel the now all too familiar tingling in her lips and the distinct light headedness that came with a panic attack. It felt like her head was growing lighter and the only thing keeping her pinned down and stopping her from floating away was the side glances and the lingering looks of the nosy buggers littering the entrance to the Ministry.

A few more steps and she would make it to the lifts. Just a few more. Frantically jabbing her finger on the call button, she prayed that she could get inside before she fainted. It had only happened once before but that sense of sinking down within herself, feeling more and more distant from the world around her was increasing. Her breath coming in shorter and more rapid succession until she was sure it would come to an abrupt stop. 

The lift ride was short, blessedly empty and a welcome chance to calm herself. When the doors opened on her level trying to get her legs moving again after such an adrenaline rush was tricky but not impossible. 

The eyes of her colleagues that she passed in the corridor, most of whom she had seen at the funeral, held only sympathy and understanding. Unspeakables were an exclusive section of the ministry and given the nature of their jobs, firm friendships were often formed. 

These were the people who got Hermione. There was no need to downplay her intellect here. No, this was an environment that Hermione had loved. Had felt like people got her ideas before she had to explain them. She would birth the fragment of an idea and others would snatch it up and mould it into something more. 

There had never been anywhere else where she felt so accepted. Not Hogwarts were her blood and brains stood her apart. Nor the muggle world were her cleverness and witchcraft kept her apart from her peers. No here she was herself and here she knew that her colleagues were concerned for her and would do their best to support her. So, what if she was shaking? They wouldn't judge. She smiled timidly at those she encountered on her way to the small office just at the end of the corridor. 

Shutting the door behind her she leaned her back against the wall and let out a breath of air she hadn't noticed she had been keeping locked inside her. The room looked different. There was a small pile of photo frames, face down on the left side of her desk. Someone had come into her room and moved all her pictures with Ron in them so that she didn't have to confront him. 

In a way it was worse than seeing him, moving in the frame, vibrant with life, laughing with her. 

A cold sensation slithered into her stomach and it occurred to her that this kindness could have been done because Ron truly had left. Had he walked out of the frame just as surely as he had walked out of her life? 

She pushed off from the door, heels snagging in the carpet as she rushed to grab the silver frame, the one that housed a picture of Ron and her sitting in the last of the warm evening sun in Nice, France. It captured her resting her head on Ron's shoulder as his arm held her close to him. He would turn, kiss the top of her head and she would raise her head a touch to smile up at him before the sequence would loop in on itself. She remembered Luna taking the photo and saying how she had never seen peace so perfectly represented and Hermione had agreed. 

The cold sensation solidified in the pit of her stomach as her hand lay on the black velvet backing. What if he was gone? What if she only saw her, alone on a bench waiting for her lover to return? Only she knew better than picture Hermione, that he was never coming back.

She couldn't face the truth in the photo. Her hand slid off the frame and it clattered from the top of the pile onto the desk. Snatching up her handbag, rushing back along the corridor not caring about the curious looks she was gaining as she rushed faster and faster towards the lifts. There was no comfort here. Not in this place. When the lift doors pinged, and she stumbled inside. 

Oh Merlin, the lift was occupied. Someone was going to witness her spectacularly fall apart. Fuck it all but she didn’t care. The air that seemed to wheeze through her stiff lips was too little. Not enough oxygen and little black dots seemed to pop in her vision. She could feel her body sliding down the inside panelling of the lift.

“Granger?”

The voice was remote and meaningless to her as she tried to drag more oxygen into her lungs. The sensation of being grasped by the upper arms and lifted felt more like she was being lifted out of a pool of icy water that had incapacitated her lungs and back out onto warm dry blessed air than just being helped off a lift floor. Her ribs expanded and the luxury of feeling that first true breath left her euphoric. 

A feeling that was now so foreign to her that she was almost confused at its presence. Her hand reached out and gripped the brass rail that ran the perimeter of the lift. The cold metal on her over heated body jarred her back into her own mind. She lay the back of her head against the wooden panelling, eyes closed and just breathed. Existed for a moment in a welcome place of calm, tethered to the here and now by this benevolent stranger. Her magic seemed to be happy, no, joyful and there could be no reason for that on this morning.

A throat cleared awkwardly. Glancing up Draco Malfoy was crowding round her, both hands still on her upper arms. She turned away expecting a wash of shame to cover her that he of all people should see her so vulnerable. 

But it never came. What did was a staggering rush of happiness that ran through her magic. She felt buoyed, safe and cherished and he, well, he looked as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. 

To the casual observer it looked like he had just helped a stranger who had stumbled on the way into the lift.

To Hermione, Malfoy and she were little more than strangers with a past. Two people who had moved so far beyond what either of them had ever been that it was easier to avoid eye contact, dip their heads in acknowledgment and then fervently attempt to ignore one another.   
That should have been what was happening now. Except she could feel his magic. She could almost see the way his magic was stroking hers. Long sweeping caresses that soothed her like a mother cradling a precious child and kissing away a hurt. 

The sensation was buttercup yellow and she revelled in it. She wanted to grab his hand and tell him all about the joy that his magic was pouring into her heart. Except. Except Draco Malfoy looked as if he could feel none of this. He looked as if Hermione was inconsequential to him, indeed he was dropping his hands and looking as if he wanted to clean the palms of his hands on his robes. 

It caused Hermione to feel a shiver of doubt. Was she so broken that she was deluding herself into feeling things for Draco Malfoy of all people? 

No, the sensation was overwhelming and addictive, as was the realisation that this was what she had felt in the cemetery. It was real but the jarring contrast between what she was experiencing with Malfoys magic and the owner of the magic’s countenance made her hesitate and draw her own magic back. Wrapping it tightly around her like some form of body armour, her shield from whatever it was he was trying to do to her. 

The instant she did, his magic knew and like a puppy gambolled around her demanding attention, desperate to reconnect with her own magic.

“Malfoy, do you feel it?” She hadn’t dared to look at him but rather spoke to the lift panelling over his left shoulder. A hot flush stained her cheeks as she asked the stupidest question quite possibly to have ever pass from her lips. How could he not? It was his magic after all she reasoned.

“Feel what Granger?” he exhaled heavily at the end of his question as if having to even entertain answering the likes of Hermione was so beneath him.

“The…the” she stammered. How to describe it? It was like being cocooned in warmth? Feeling safe, protected? Being well met by your equal? None of these sounded even in Hermione’s head like a sensible thing to say to Malfoy. He’d just take the piss out of her and walk away.

“The sensation of rightness.” It wasn’t too flowery language but it captured the essence of the high she was experiencing.

“The sensation of rightness?” He had moved right into her sight line, arching a brow and looking down his refined pureblood nose at her. “Reading a lot of witch weekly short stories Granger? Never had you down as a Romantic.” And there it was. The smirk. 

Hermione had seen that smirk, hundreds, if not thousands of times throughout her school career. She had wanted to slap it off his face many more times than the one occasion she had managed to do it. But the problem for Draco Malfoy was that Hermione was more familiar with that smirk than he was. There was no smug glee that he was superior. Nor was there the malicious glee that was always evident when harm had befallen another. Those were the smirks she was used to see from this prat but this one had the air of being forced. It was there as a shield. The lift pinged and a cool voice intoned “Magical Law Enforcement: Parole Offices” as the doors slide open.

“My floor Granger, enjoy your…” and he flicked his eyes over the length of her body and looked as if he could barely contain his disgust “sensation somewhere else.” And he made to step through the open doorway.

“Your lying.” Hermione reached out to stop him by grabbing his wrist, but Draco startled her with the alacrity with which he spun away from her.

“Do not touch me.” His eyes darkened “You do not ever touch me.” And he spun on the heel of his leather brogues and strode into the parole offices, his anger evident in the set of his shoulders and the way he snapped the fabric of his robes into place at his wrists.

The doors of the lift slid closed shutting her off from the sight of him walking away from her. Hermione could feel her body shaking. Even her stomach seemed to be quivering leaving her feeling sick but not from anger. Nor because she had been through enough bloody turmoil and it wasn’t even nine am yet on her first day back at work. 

No, Hermione felt all her strength leave her as she leaned heavily on the wall of the lift because she had never felt anything as traumatic as when his magic had been forcible made to untangle itself from where it had been ensconced around her trying to protect her from his hurtful words. The very real loss of it made her want to fold in on herself and keen through her pain as she wondered why all those nights she had wanted to experience this again.


End file.
